The Sins of The Mother
by Dentures
Summary: Hermione works herself to the bone, futiley. Harry is struggling to figure out who he is after the fulfillment of his prophecy. And they both wonder why the world they worked so hard to save doesn't seem to get any better. A man struggles with his sins, and his family's. Can these flawed, marred people save Wizarding society from itself? Does it even deserve to be saved?
1. Chapter 1

A shrill whistling pierced the air of the apartment in Downtown London, as the tea kettle on the stove announced it's readiness to be taken off. From the other side of the unlighted and modestly furnished room, the man who lived in the apartment rose from his sofa with a soft grunt. He crossed the room in quick, assertive strides.

There was no other way he knew how to do it.

With a hand as controlled and steady as any surgeons, he lifted the kettle from the stove, pouring the dark watery liquid into a cup at the ready on the counter. As he watched the stream of tea fall from the spout, he wondered, for the hundredth time, if he should have simply turned himself in when he had the chance. Wondered how long he could keep running.

He received his answer, as suddenly he felt his wards breached. All of them. Which meant an Auror team, complete with specialized Ward Breakers. He dropped the now unimportant tea kettle, crashing to the floor as he reached into his side pocket, and withdrew his wand. The man's Stormy grey eyes cast about the apartment, to the fireplace he never used, but kept for this exact purpose. He was moving towards it before the pieces of the kettle had even stooped fully coming apart.

He seized the small black powder sitting on the mantle, digging his fingers inside and bring out a small handful of black powder. He flung it into the fireplace, and opened his mouth to speak. Just as he did, he was knocked to the ground, as his door exploded inwards, the small explosion filling the entirety of his incredibly modest room. He covered his eyes as his body hit the floor, preserving them from any splinters of wood from the compromised door. Years of practice kept his wand clenched firmly in his hand. Before the dust had even begun to settle, he was pulling himself to his feet, blinking rapidly and shaking his head to try to clear the ringing in his ears. He saw shadowed figures in what used to be his doorway, and instinct brought his wand up. Old habits brought the words to his lips. And his morality stopped the words from coming out. Swearing internally, he tried to think of another spell, any other spell, but his moment of hesitation had already done him in.

His heart raced, and time slowed down, as he watched as two beautiful red arcs of light flew from the wands of two of the shadowy figures, to come crashing into his chest. As he felt his body go limp, and the wand drop from his now powerless fingers, he took the second before he hit the floor for the second time in the last 30 seconds to once again swear at himself internally. Hitting the floor without his body being able to brace itself was significantly more painful. He lay face down, unmoving as people surrounded his Stunned body, and others checked the two other small, unimpressive rooms he called home. He felt blood leaking from his nose, which was beginning to ache. The man would have sighed then, if he could. He'd broken his nose. A boot dug into his side, turning him over with no amount of gentleness or sympathy. He blinked the pain from his eyes, focusing them on the faces of his captors. Yes, they were definitely Aurors. Jesus, do all Aurors go to the exact same barber?

One of them, the leader, spelled ropes to wrap around him, rather tightly. Not taking chances, were they? Smart.

The Auror in charge looked at him with disgust. Of course, that disgust came with the family name. After all, she'd personally suffered at the hands of those who shared his blood. He knew that, because the story of this particular Auror was incredibly well known. She had, after all, saved the entirety of the wizarding world, along with her two friends, Ronald Weasley, and Harry Potter. Hermione Granger eyed the man on the ground with revulsion, but with even more satisfaction. She leaned down, making sure the criminal on the ground could see and hear her clearly when she got her satisfaction.

"Rodolphus Lestrange the II, I am placing you under arrest by the authority of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement in The Ministry of Magic, for the practice of Dark Arts, the possession of illegal dangerous magical artifacts, the use of Unforgivable Curses, and the Torture and Murder of 17 known people."

**This is my first upload on this site, and I'm excited to write fanfiction in the future! Please, review my intro, and tell me what you think, and what ideas you have. I know this is a very short intro, and chapters will be significantly longer in the future. I just want to see if there is any interest in this before devoting time to it. I don't want to write what no one wants! I know I didn't give much information here, and that's because this idea is still developing, and I'd like to keep it as open as possible.**

**I do not own Harry Potter, the universe or any of it's characters. **


	2. Chapter 2

**It hasn't been 24 hours yet, and I already am putting up the next section. I've always been rather impatient, I guess.**

**I do not own the Harry Potter universe, nor it's characters. **

The man some called Rodolphus Lestrange the II eyed the small, cramped space that was his cell. Considering who he was, the Ministry has spared no effort to make the place as aesthetically accurate to stereotypical dungeons as possible. Damp walls of stone, bars over windows, a single small cot, with perhaps the moldiest blanket in the entire of the wizarding world. He cocked his head, and could swear he heard a steady water drip in the distance, along with groans and screams from other prisoners. He sighed. Or at least, he did mentally. The gag in his mouth prevented him from making the actual sound. But it's the thought that counts.

Honestly. Could this be more cliche? I guess I should be grateful there's not a skeleton in the corner, and chains hanging from the ceiling.

His exasperation didn't last, as it was pushed out by a sudden chill. A hooded figure, silent and terrible, drifted past his cell, bringing with it a gut slamming amount of pain, and regret. Memories filled his head. Despite the suddenness of the onslaught, the man steeled his jaw and allowed no whimper to escape him. It helped that the memories we a constant pain in life. He was used to hurting.

He checked his internal clock. In this place where day and night meant nothing, and the only constant was despair, time was difficult to keep track of. By his best guess, it had already been three days.

What in the hell is the delay? I've always known the ministry to be a slow moving creature, but she's the one handling my case.

The man frowned, as best he could with the gag firmly in place, and wondered what game Auror Hermione Granger could be playing at.

* * *

Hermione Granger tapped her fingers rapidly, beating a tattoo into her desk. She'd being reading the report in front of her for 20 minutes, and had retained absolutely nothing of it. She didn't even know what it was about. She groaned, throwing the paper down on her desk and leaning back in her chair. She reached up to grind the heels of her palms into her eyes, trying to expel the weariness that was becoming a constant in her life.

"Rough reading?"

Hermione jumped at the inquiring voice, blinking her eyes back into focus, dispelling the stars that swam in her vision from rubbing her eyes. Her best friend, and savior of the wizarding world, Harry Potter stood, leaning on the wall next to her desk with a bemused expression.

Hermione relaxed, seeing who it was. She resumed leaning back in her chair, and gave a shrug of her shoulders.

"Honestly, I wouldn't even know." She replied, making no attempt to hide that she had lost track of what she was doing. Harry's expression turned from a bemused smile, to a sympathetic frown.

"Are you still stressing out over Lestrange? Hermione, you've got him on 17 counts of murder, plus loads of other charges. Just hand him over to Askaban, and be done with it."

Hermione was shaking her head before Harry had even finished his sentence.

"Harry, NO. If we just lock him up and throw away the key now, we lose everything else. All the magical weapons he took from his family's vault. Not to mention, all his contacts. We can't leave all that out in the wind."

Harry looked at her, an expression of understanding on his face, but with gentle disagreement.

"Hermione, what do you think is going to happen? That a couple days in the Ministry cells is going to rattle a guy like this into giving up the only leverage he has?"

Hermione said nothing in reply, because she had no argument to offer Harry. Harry didn't press, and the two stayed silent for a minute, neither looking at each other. Finally, Hermione broached the quiet, and changed the subject.

"Hey, how is Ginny doing? Is she feeling well?"

Harry gave a small chuckle.

"She's vomiting every morning, and demanding the most random things to eat. But she's healthy, and gaining some good weight. I suppose that counts as feeling well enough, for a pregnancy."

He sighed, and ran his hand through his hair.

"She doesn't say it, but she's scared. This is our first time with a pregnancy, and we're so uncertain. Of what to do. Of how to adjust our lives to make room for a baby. Taking care of Teddy sometimes helps, though. Feels like we're getting practice."

Hermione nodded, and looked up at Harry, offering an assuring smile.

"It's going to be fine, Harry. You and Ginny are going to do a great job, and raise good kids.

Harry gave a small smile of gratitude, but Hermione could still see the doubt in his eyes. Still, she nodded back, giving him the impression that she was satisfied that she had helped. After a moment, she turned back to her report, picking it up again as she stood from her desk.

"Well, I'm not getting anything done here. Might as well head to the breakroom, and get a sugar boost. Want anything?"

Harry shook his head. "Better not. Being domesticated has taken its toll. I think I'm starting to get a potbelly!" He joked. Hermione snorted. Harry kept himself in good shape, and this potbelly he spoke of was nonexistent. In fact, Harry had begun working out more frequently recently, and more intensely,

Perhaps he was restless.

Nevertheless, Hermione accepted his excuse, standing up and making her way through the Auror office block. She gave greetings and small talk responses to the Aurors she passed, and made her way out of the Auror section, and headed through the semi-crowded hallways to the Department of Magical Law Enforcement break room. She gave a nod to those that looked up when she entered the room, but that was a fraction of the room. The break room resembled an office, with almost everyone silent, with their heads buried in various paperwork. Hermione made her way to the counter in the back, and helped herself to one of the chocolate chip muffins arrayed on the space. She bit into it with relish, and her overworked and weary body rejoiced at the sugar she was taking in. She walked over to the nearest empty spot, settling into it, and setting her long neglected report in front of her.

She began reading, and almost immediately she leapt out of her seat, exclaiming. Several occupants looked up with alarm, and annoyance at her outburst. Hermione, who would normally be embarrassed by such an unprofessional display, was too preoccupied with her racing thoughts and with grabbing the report. She was not, however, too preoccupied to snatch her muffin from the table and take it with her. She walked briskly out of the break room, disapproving glares plastering her back. However, Hermione didn't even notice, emerging in the hallway and striding purposefully towards the prisoner interrogation rooms. Her weariness was gone, her tired body forgotten. She'd received the permission she'd been waiting for. She took a bite from her muffin. She was going to get what she wanted from Rodolphus Lestrange the II. Whether he cooperated or not.

Damn, this is a good muffin.

* * *

The man in the cell of Rodolphus Lestrange the II looked up from the floor, as two men dressed in crisp uniforms unlocked his cell, and opened the steel bars outward. Brandishing wands, they stepped forward. The one on the man's left wasted no breath on a considerate warning, instead opting to immediately stun the man on the floor. As the man's body went limp, he couldn't help but sigh mentally again.

Honestly? How rude.

The one on the man's right gave his arm a swish and flick, and the man was levitated into the air. They floated him out of the cell, face down. The walked, making many turns, left and right. The man counted the turns, though more out of principle. He wasn't likely to break out. Not anytime soon.

Eventually, they reached their destination, as the man was floated into a room, and set down surprisingly gently on the floor. Hands gripped him, hauling his stunned body up and into a chair. They waved their wands, and chains came to life, binding his arms and legs to the chair, and crossing around his torso in an x. His two silent transporters waved their wands, and his chair pulled up to a table, with two other chairs on the opposite side. The one who had originally stunned him grunted a "Rennervate."

As the two left, the man at the table felt the feeling return to his limbs. He stretched his neck. The only thing he could really stretch, with the chains on him. As he did so, he surveyed the room. Aside from the table and chairs, the only other notable features were the Ministry blue torches, two on every wall. The walls themselves were dark and bare, the room being perhaps only 10 by 15 feet. He did his damndest to settle into a comfortable position, chains notwithstanding, and resigned himself to another wait until his interrogator arrived.

He didn't have to wait long.

Mere minutes passed, and the door opened to admit a woman, her brown hair, naturally bushy, pulled back into a bun. Hermione Granger preferred function to fashion.

She didn't deign to look at him immediately, eyeing a sizable folder. His, he assumed. She tossed it down on the table, making a loud smacking sound. She pulled out a chair, and settled herself into it. Then, and only then, did she look up at the man in front of her, bound and gagged.

"Hello, Mr. Lestrange. My name is Hermione Granger, and I am the Auror in charge of your case. I'd like to ask you a few questions."


	3. Chapter 3

**Back with a third chapter. This one was tougher, because I had to design a way for these two characters to interact for their first meeting, and for that, I had to make up my mind about some of the things I was considering for the story. It's hard to know if what you're building now as the foundation will be something you will be happy with in the eventual outcome. **

**Even so, please let me know what you think!**

* * *

Hermione was doing her best to keep her voice even. To keep any hint of emotion from flickering across her face, and revealing her true thoughts to the man bound and gagged, sitting across the table from her, in a Ministry interrogation room.

It wasn't an easy task.

Sitting across the table from this man, having him talk, answering her questions. It had been a long time coming, and she'd played it out in her head a thousand times. In each one, she had seen herself as calm, cool, and confident. A professional Ministry Auror. Still, it was a struggle to maintain a professional, objective air. A struggle to stop herself from taking out her wand. Though whether she wanted to take out her wand to feel the strength and confidence that came from it, or because she wanted to stun him into unconsciousness, Hermione couldn't be certain. But there were rules, and moral structures. Guidelines that she, and the rest of the Department of Magical Law enforcement, must follow.

_Although, _Hermione thought, with a mental frown, _There are a good number of people here who ignore the rules, when they want to. _

Hermione had joined the Ministry, not even a month after her time at Hogwarts had ended. It hadn't been what she imagined.

After they had defeated Lord Voldemort, the most powerful Dark Wizard of the century, Harry, Hermione, and Ron had returned to finish their final year at Hogwarts. That year had been, blessedly, uneventful. The school rebuilt, the people recovered. Ron's attitude toward school work had, unfortunately, not improved. In truth, Ron neglected the duties of a student more than ever. Whenever Hermione began to dog him about his schoolwork, his reply was always the same.

"_What's the point of doing homework? We've saved the bloody world, 'Mione!"_

Hermione would roll her eyes, but she would always let it slide. Her arguments had never swayed him in the past, and were even less likely to now. Besides, given their newfound relationship, Hermione thought it best to avoid pressing the matter, and causing an argument. He had seemed to adopt the role of savior quickly, and was never more enthused than when he was bragging about the groups clever infiltration of the ministry to anyone who would buy him a drink at the Three Broomsticks during Hogsmeade visits, or when he described his own heroics in dealing with the horcruxes while taking interviews with any reporter that would listen. As Harry and Hermione sat up late one night in the common room, studying, the third member of their trio became a topic of discussion. When Hermione inquired about how Harry felt about Ron discussing the groups exploits, Harry had said he didn't mind Ron's love for the press. When Hermione had questioned him about it, Harry had shrugged, and said, "Well, they all know they can get Ron to talk. Now, they don't bother me nearly as much."

They'd shared a laugh, even if it felt somewhat strained.

Ron technically failed every single class that year, but who was going to hold back a member of the Golden Trio, and demand he retake his final year of school? And when the Summer came upon them, and they'd graduated, and Harry and Hermione had both leapt with vigor into the Auror training program, ready to be part of the new, and improved Ministry. The Ministry that was going to put the world back together, and bring Wizarding Society into a new era of peace and understanding.

Whenever she looked back on her own optimistic outlook, and faith in the system to correct itself, Hermione nowadays would shake her head, and give a bitter laugh at her own past self. The Ministry was not any better. In the bureaucratic sense, or in the moral. After Voldemort, the void of Dark power he left behind was soon eagerly filled with a new wave of two bit wannabe Dark Lords, political radicals, and corrupt officials.

Most dangerous of all, the truly ambitious ones. The ones who saw that this big societal shake up as a chance to get in on the ground floor for it's rebuilding, and grab all the power they could, while the competition was thin. Wizarding families previously unknown became the new great names of the Wizarding World, and few of them were pureblood anymore. Many people now complained about the massive amounts of power these few people, who took advantage of the world while it was down now held, but the Ministry was, as it always has been, an incredibly slow moving, and slothful beast. By the time Hermione had joined, the wounds that the Ministry had failed to cauterize in the beginning were already festering.

And had begun to slowly infect the entire host.

Nevertheless, despite the obstacles arrayed against her, Hermione had set about to change things, through the best method she knew. By working hard, following the rules, and showing how Ministry officials should behave through her own example.

Though, she had to admit, it was slow going. Harry helped as much as he could, but he had other things on his mind. Namely, his pregnant wife. Hermione knew that Harry was still having trouble adjusting to life outside of school, outside of his life dedicated to fighting an enemy now gone. She didn't say anything, but she feared that while his Scar was no longer hurting him, other scars dwelt below the surface, and were slowly killing her friend.

She would be there, ready to help him up if ever he stumbled. Until then, she had to keep her main focus on her work. Her dedication to it had brought her here.

Sitting across the table from a Dark Wizard, whose name was whispered in the hidden places of the magical world.

The man whose name was spoken as Rodolphus Lestrange the II, in hushed tones throughout the Wizarding Criminal Underworld. He gave no acknowledgment of her question, holding her with the same even look in his steel grey eyes as he had been since she first entered the room. She gave him a few more moments to give any indication of understanding.

He did not.

Hermione took out her wand, feeling a relief she refused to show on her face as she gripped the slender piece of wood. With a wave, the gag that was binding his mouth shut untied itself, dropping to the floor in a heap. Rodolphus Lestrange the II flexed his jaw, stretching it out after having the uncomfortable gag on for so long. Hermione waited for him to finish his adjusting himself, before repeating her earlier statement. Still, he gave no sign of understanding. Hermione felt a flicker of irritation, but his reaction wasn't unexpected. At least he hadn't immediately begun launching into a speech about how she was Mudblood filth. He had one advantage over his mother in that regard, anyway.

Seeing that she would have to push this conversation further along, she set a large, bound file on the table before her. Even as she did so, his eyes never left hers. Never blinked. Hermione began to undo the files ties as she spoke again.

"Mr. Lestrange, it would be in your best interest to cooperate, as much as possible. We have several witnesses to your crimes. Records of you withdrawing illegal Dark objects from the Lestrange family vault, exactly 467 days ago. Now, we found none of these things in your flat."

She left the statement in the air, allowing him to come to the conclusion of what the Ministry wanted himself. If he did, he gave no indication. Hermione sighed, and turned over the cover page of the folder, and taking several photos from the inner pocket. She tossed them on the table, and they landed in a scattered heap. Her voice hardened slightly.

"Familiar? They should be. They're your handiwork."

Finally, he showed some reaction, his eyes flickering down to study the pictures. 16 pictures, featuring a different Witch or Wizard. All displayed in the state of death. While his eyes were distracted, Hermione took the opportunity to study his face, without his gaze to distract her. He had much of his mother in him.

His skin was pale, but not in any sickly or ill way, but like Carved Ivory, almost vampiric. No freckles, moles, or acne marred his skin. His hair, too, was eerily similar to his mothers. An Inky, black pool that cascaded down the artist like lines of his face. His lips were naturally full, and soft looking. His lashes were long, and dark. His lids looking heavy and dark. Hermione thought that if Bellatrix were a bit younger, and male, that she would look very much like the man sitting before her.

The difference lay in the eyes. Though they both had the same heavy, dark lids, the eyes themselves were worlds apart. Smudged and dark, his eyes were like a Thunderstorm, the kind that destroyed cities and caused the ocean to rock back and forth, crashing down destruction onto any ship unlucky enough to be caught in it, and sending it's crew to a cold, watery death. Bellatrix's eyes had been deep pools, of pitch black poison. Dead, except for the spark of insane zealotry that fueled her. As she came to her conclusions about his appearance, his eyes snapped back up to her, holding it. She averted her eyes quickly, then cursed herself for it. He would see it as a sign of weakness. How would she maintain her authoritative demeanor, she she got embarrassed for something so simple as looking at him?

_Remember why you're here. Remember what he's done. Focus on that._

Reaching back into the folder, Hermione withdrew a 17th photo, seperate from all the others. WIth considerably more care, she placed the photo on the table, turning it towards him.

"What about this one? Your last kill."

Rodolphus Lestrange the II looked down at the photo, and this time Hermione swore she saw something, A flicker of Lightning in the storm behind his eyes.

Hermione's heart began to pound. What was it? That look in his eye? Fear, for being caught? Satisfaction, at his work done? Arousal, at his own sadistic actions?

Guilt?

Hermione felt the emotions that she had worked so hard to keep contained, to channel productively, begin to churn in her cognitive sea, stronger than it had been in a long time.

Since the funeral.

Hermione placed her palms on the table, leaning forward, her professional Ministry demeanor cracking, showing a small glimpse of what she really felt.

Showing the face of someone who was mourning, someone who wanted revenge.

"You'd better recognize it. You _burned him alive_. A good man. A good _friend._ He was investigating you, and the people you worked with. And for it, you put him through agony."

Hermione found that she was standing, her fists clenched, her chest heaving. Rodolphus was looking at her, his grey eyes slightly widened. Hermione would have cursed herself for losing her cool, but she suddenly found herself so drained of energy that she couldn't bring herself to hand out the mental berating she normally would. She reached over, and began to gather up the photos, piling them together. As she put them back in the folder, and began to tie the string around the folder.

"You know, Azkahbahn is not as bad as they say. It's _worse._ You killed a good man, and I'm not going to regret sending you there. But I knew him, and I know he wasn't the kind for revenge. IF you give up your contacts, and IF you turn over your illegal artifacts, we can talk about other options."

She made her way to the interrogation room door, and opened it.

"Auror."

She froze in place at the sound of the voice, grating. Like a knife, being dragged across the ground. It was deep, beneath the coarseness. Hermione didn't turn around, but she stopped in place to show that he had her attention.

"He _was_ a good man."

She turned, locking her warm brown eyes onto his cold grey ones.

"And that's exactly what got Neville killed."

* * *

**I know, I know. How Dare I? We all love Neville. Well, it was either him or Luna, so I hope you'll forgive me. Next chapter is going to include some adult content, so be warned. **

**Please, tell me what you think! It's the best way I can make a story that I want to write also be a story that you want to read. Arrivederci! **

**\- Dentures**


	4. Chapter 4

**Back with the next chapter. I finally incorporated a scene from Harry's point of view. Although I suspect my version of Harry is not going to be super popular. Also, some content warning for this chapter. It's not too bad, but be advised.**

**I don't own Harry Potter, it's characters, or it's locations. Just the story I write.**

* * *

Hermione would have practically fled out the door, and down the hallway, if not for the extreme well of willpower she kept in her, to keep her steps calm and controlled, and her expression calm and blank. But her mind felt like it was on fire. It hadn't really been real. Neville's murder, the months she spent chasing leads. All that, and even sitting across the table from the man who had killed him, and she had still, somewhere deep in her subconscious, she hadn't really pieced it together. Neville was dead. And she had accepted that. But she hadn't yet fully understood that she was sitting across from the man who had killed him. Not even looking into his eyes while she showed him the photo of Neville's corpse, the smoke still whisping off the body in the photograph.

No, not until he spoke.

His voice, yet another characteristic that divulged from Bellatrix. But it was not, Hermione thought, an improvement. His voice was guttural, and rasping, though she could clearly hear every word.

Hermione saw the sign, indicating the men's and women's restrooms. She quickly ducked into the women's, and was relieved to find it empty. She dropped her folder containing the photos and other evidence for the Rodolphus Lestrange II case on the counter top, and reached forward to turn the tap water on, cupping the cool liquid in her hands, and splashing it into her face. The soothing cold water helped clear her confused mind, and she seized the edge of the counter top, and looked at the woman in the mirror in front of her.

The woman that stared back had brown eyes, once a chocolatey brown, they had darkened over the course of her now 23 years of living. Her hair, once so long and uncontrollably bushy, was now chopped to lay just on her shoulder blades when it was down and loose. But now, as it typically was at work, the hair was pulled up in semi-tight bun at the back of her head.

Hermione scowled at the woman in the mirror, who looked stressed, fearful.

Look at you. She thought angrily. Practically falling apart.

She closed her eyes, breathing deeply.

Shove it down. Everything. The fear, the pain. Deal with it later, Hermione. You can't afford to let your emotions break you down. Not now.

By the time Hermione opened her eyes, the woman looking back at her in the mirror held a calm, professional expression.

Hermione straightened her back, rolling her shoulders, and collected her file from the counter top. She straightened her clothes, patting them down to smoothe out any wrinkles. As she exited the bathroom, she gave a nod and a smile to the other woman who walked passed her into the bathroom. She made her way back towards her office, striding with clarity of purpose. Weariness forgotten. Pain, somewhere far away.

* * *

The door closed, disturbingly silent for metal bars. The man in the cell of Rodolphus Lestrange the II watched from his position on the floor, where his captors had deposited him rather roughly. He glared daggers over his gag at their backs, as they walked away from his cell. He spent a moment adjusting himself to a more comfortable position, resting his back against his cell wall. There wasn't much to do in the small holding cells of the ministry. His options were to sit and wait for food, or listen to the various assorted moans and sobs echoing through the holding area, and try to guess based on that, where the dementors were currently sucking some poor bastard's life joy.

He preferred to delve into his thoughts.

He thought a lot. He had many things to occupy his mind. His memories, some filled with sorrow and the pain of a confused child. Others, full of warmth, and days spent in the sun, smelling the salt of the ocean on the air. He liked to think about his plans, and he daydreamed of enacting justice. And after the subject matter brought up talking with the Auror, Hermione Granger, he was currently reflecting on his deepest regret.

Should he help her? Give her trinkets from the Lestrange vault, sell out the contacts he'd made in the magical underworld?

Perhaps, He thought in a sudden realization, if I cooperate ...perhaps if I give her what she wants...she can help me get what I want.

An outline of a plan began to form in his mind.

You'll get her killed. You know what you'd be putting her up against. You know what happened to the last person to help you.

The man pushed away that voice in his head, the one that called for him to value Hermione Granger's life. The voice that sounded very much like an old friend. He pushed it away, and let the iron walls around his heart descend. Protecting him from the torment of a conscience.. Allowing him to sit on the floor of the holding cells of the ministry of magic, bound and gagged, and ignore the weeping of men and women in despair.

* * *

Harry's head went back, his chin tilting up. Eye's closed, and mouth open enough to allow a slight groan to escape him. He was currently sitting in his chair, inside his own office. Already being the Deputy Head of the Auror Department had it's perks, and a private office with a shut door was something Harry was often grateful for. When he had to concentrate on something without being disturbed. When he wanted to eat his lunch in private. And especially at times like these, with a pretty blonde's face in his lap.

Harry put his fist to his mouth, to stifle another, louder, groan as the girl, a clerk from the Department of International Magical Cooperation, switched up her technique. As he received the oral stimulation, he felt, as he often did, a surge of shame.

He shouldn't be doing this. He shouldn't, not with a wife at home, not with his unborn child growing inside her. He should remove this woman's head from his crotch, apologize and tell her he was making a mistake, usher her from his office, and go home to tell Ginny, and beg forgiveness. But he didn't. He always thought this, and yet he never did.

Why is that? Harry wondered, bitterly. Why do I always want to do it, but never do?

As always, his guilt was driven from him, as his body began to signal it's impending orgasm. His breathing came heavier, his hips moving against his will. She must have sensed it, for she attacked her task with a renewed vigor.

Bliss filled Harry's thoughts, and for a few brief, wonderful seconds, he felt a complete absence of shame. He felt like he was a young man again, spending his days in Hogwarts with his friends. Preparing to face his great enemy.

The feeling faded, and shame returned.

"My. You sure look like you needed that."

Harry looked down, at the pretty blue eyed girl smiling up at him from her kneeling position. His shame was overwhelming him now, as he looked down at the attractive, buxom woman, and thought only of his betrayal to the woman he loved.

He wanted to vomit. He put on a smile instead.

"Merlin, I did. Thank you….."

He felt the heat come to his cheeks as he realized. He had completely forgotten this woman's name.

"Abigail." She told him, still smiling, though now with a tint of a frown in her eyes.

"Abigail, of course. My mind's been shite, today."

She nodded, though they both knew that it was just an excuse. They both waited for a moment, awkwardly unsure of what to do next. The woman who worked as a clerk in the Department of International Magical Cooperation, who was named Abigail, stood, straightening the lines of her grey pencil skirt, and button up white shirt. Harry stood as well, putting his organ back inside his trousers, and zipping them closed. After another awkward pause, they both spoke.

"Maybe sometime we could-"

"Well, thank you for-"

They both stopped mid sentence, each acutely aware of what the other was going to say, and each feeling embarrassed. Abigail shuffled her feet, looking down. After a moment, she looked back up, a small smile on her face.

"Of course. I'm glad you- I'm glad it was good."

She headed for his door. When she reached it, she paused, her hand resting on the knob. She turned her head back, and offered him another smile.

"After all, what girl would pass up the chance? You are the Chosen One, after all."

She opened his door, and walked out, leaving it open behind her.

Harry sat down, heavily, in his chair once again.

The Chosen One. He thought bitterly. He looked up, to the picture framed and sitting on his desk. It was his and Ginny's wedding day. The Harry in that photo seemed so happy, so lively. He was holding his wife, smiling and laughing. Occasionally, he would lean down and kiss her.

What happened? That Harry would never be so despicable. He ground his palms against his eyes, suddenly weary from his troubled mind. I'm just in a rut. He thought. I need to go back to work. Back to helping people. He thought of Abigail, and shook his head to clear it.

Never again. I will NEVER do it again.

But even as he thought it, the words felt hollow.

* * *

**There you have it, folks. Chapter 4. I'm already working on the next one, so don't you worry. Also, PLEASE review. I give a shit about what you guys think, and I want to know your opinions, ideas, and theories. My goal is to be able to have fun and interesting discussions with you guys about the story.**

**Until next time, Dentures.**


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